


Neon Melting

by patron_saint_of_apricots



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hades Owns a Club, In a Laundromat, It's hot, Kissing, Late at Night, Making Out, Meg is a Dancer, Meg plz step on me, Strangers, Who Work at Same Club, Zag Works the Bar, strangers to strangers who kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29732946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patron_saint_of_apricots/pseuds/patron_saint_of_apricots
Summary: When Zag meets a dancer from his father’s club in a late-night laundromat, he learns a thing or two about what it means to be boss.Or how Meg is so hot that kissing her will make you melt. Rated M for Make-out session with Meg is too sexy.
Relationships: Megaera/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28





	Neon Melting

**Author's Note:**

> It’s Meg simping hours. And also Meg is an absolute heathen with her laundry. Enjoy!
> 
> Music Vibes is something between this [Sentient by Perturbator](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTN6cGmH2yM&ab_channel=BlooodMusic) and this [Sexkiller on the Loose by Carpenter Brut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOwSrPzT8qg&ab_channel=CarpenterBrut)

A static buzz, and the neon signage flickers erratically, its glow melting on the pavement in pink and violet. A moth flutters against the glass, bumping uselessly against the reflected light. A drop of sweat rolls down Zag’s neck and pools in the dip of his clavicle. It’s late, the city smells like gasoline and gangs out for a ride-by, and Zag just clocked off from a twelve-hour shift; he’s dead on his feet—no breaks and a full bar. He couldn’t pour the liquor fast enough, and the summer is stiflingly hot, leaving drinks with condensation dripping down fingers, and sweaty bodies moving skin to skin. His black shirt is unbuttoned in a V down his chest, his sleeves are rolled to his elbow, and still, he’s hot. Each breath he draws is thick and warm; not fresh—nothing in this city is. It’s all layers and layers of smoke and gas and boiling grease swirling down his throat and suffocating the night.

He enters the backstreet laundromat with a chiming of bells and brings the stench of the city in with him. It’s empty, silent completely; the glass mutes the motorbikes hooning in the distance, and each step he takes echoes vividly, _clunk, clunk, clunk;_ the thunk of him dropping his wash basket on the black and white tiles jars him out of his daze. He blinks. In the neon-lit glass façade, his reflection stares back at him. His skin is tinged in blue from the downlights on the ceiling and highlighted in pink from the neon signage on the walls; it all melts into violet, under the cut of his jaw, on the rise of his cupid’s bow, along the angular line of his cheekbone.

He throws dirty wads of washing into a machine and rummages in his pocket for a coin, but as he wedges his hand out of his tight jeans, loose change spills all over the titles along with a fluttering of bills. The coins chink, rolling in several outwards directions. Zag stomps on one, loses another under the dank depths of a washer and listens to the ringing of the last one spinning around its rim. He searches for it in the molten neon pools on the floor as it loops faster and faster, almost vibrating against the tiles until it falls into silence, and then it is lost in the fades of pink and blue. He clicks his tongue and slots the one coin he salvaged into the machine. A crank of the dial sets the cycle, and then the washer rumbles to life. She stalls a few times and spasms angrily in the metal line, but soon she settles into a happy routine, and water surges through the pipes to fill her.

Crouched in front of the machine, Zag watches his clothes begin to tumble and sighs his relief. The bug zapper in the corner electrocutes a flying beetle with a sudden buzz of static. The rumble of his washing and the groan of his knees are the only sounds to reach his ears as he rises to his feet. He looks around the empty laundromat, the place he frequents once a week or as little as he can get away with. It’s old, run down, stuck in the past and long since forgotten about. There are cracks on the tiles where something heavy was once dropped, there are stains in the grout, layers of gunk built up over time, and not all the machines work the way you would expect, some just gobble up your money and _ha-ha! Sucker._

But that is life. That’s just how it is. You live and you learn. A trial and error sort of thing. It’s a new experience. This part of town. Late at night. And this laundromat; it’s within walking distance of his job, and the price is cheap, cheaper if you’re willing to shove your hand under the machines in search of funds. The old gum is just part of the experience as well! And anyway, the lights are pretty enough to fool a guy into thinking the pipes aren’t old and the mould is just part of the wallpaper. It’s fine if you don’t look too deeply.

Zag jumps onto an unoccupied dryer, elbows resting on his knees, cheeks resting in his hands, and watches the machine cycle his clothes around and around. It’s mesmerizing in a way it shouldn’t be. Like the monotony of the city, trapped in an endless cycle. Go to work. Go to sleep. Work and sleep. Work and sleep…

He jolts awake to a chiming of bells and shakes his head to rid the sleep from his clouded mind. His heart pounds in his chest, thick like each breath he breathes, and realizing where he is, he snaps his eyes to the entrance. His lips part at what he sees there.

Heels clack on the tiles, a steady strut of hot pink stilettos, needle-sharp. And then a glaze of glossy black, latex so tight it looks painted on, and _oh, hell,_ that is one long leg line. Another step, and he follows that never-ending leg up to the swish of purposeful hips. The flesh of her navel scintillates blue under the neon haze with a sheen of sweat, and there’s a gold jewel pierced there that sways with every move she makes.

_Mesmerizing,_ like the amulet of a hypnotist. _Stare deeply into it._ Zag blinks, and the babe walks right past him, walks down the other aisle, a line of machines between them. She shucks off the cropped jacket hanging loosely over her shoulders, and throws its holographic plastic over a machine, her back to him. She wedges open the door of a washer with the stiletto of her heels, her sleek, high ponytail swinging behind her with a practiced flick of her head. Her long, straight hair is blue like the blue on her skin. And then she tips a handbag’s worth of dainty lingerie into washer, bright colours spilling out one after another like an endless rope of sex, like _magic_ pulled from the least suspected place; it turns the room a-swelter, makes Zag feel like summer all the way from his ears to his collar. The pink of her bra and the pink of her heels glows under the neon lights like the hot pink painted on her lips, perfectly intact after hours of dancing.

The muted beat of music resounds from her headphones.

And Zag knows he is staring when he shouldn’t be, but he didn’t even know she lived in the area; this dancer from his father’s club. He sees her occasionally when he works the bar, sees her perform, sees that height, that flexibility, that strength in her body every time she moves, and those thighs… _huuuu_

Meg, they call her; the fury that makes their patrons rage with jealousy. She’s intimidating, entrancing, _mesmerizing_ like the shift of her hips as she leans over one leg and picks up a fallen thong without bending her knees. Zag’s mouth goes dry and he’s definitely not staring at the gloss of neon glinting off her perfectly round booty, but it’s an iridescent melting of colours on latex that sends him into a trance. She kicks the door of the machine shut and cranks the dial, and Zag watches hypnotized as the bright colours begin to swirl around and around.

And oh, no. He’s the moth drawn to a light, bumping uselessly against the glass. He should go and say hello, should go and introduce himself because maybe she didn’t see him hidden in the shadows with the volume of her music blasted to the max. But wow, Zag feels like he can’t move a muscle. She has this aura that makes it difficult to approach, like she’s way out of his league, like just breathing the same air is a privilege. It makes Zag’s palms begin to sweat, makes him wish he knocked back some liquid courage before clocking off tonight. But they work near each other, they live in the same area, and maybe, just maybe, he could make her a drink sometime in the future.

Working up his courage, Zag slides off the top of the dryer, straightens out his shirt collar, and rounds the line of machines separating their aisles. “H-Hey,” he says, approaching from the side. “I, uh, I work at the club.” He leans his hip against a machine on the corner, his hand resting on the cool metal as he gestures with the other. “I’ve seen you a few times, but I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself. So, uh, yeah, I’m Zag. Nice to meet you.”

He holds out his hand, but his introduction is met with absolute silence; and in return, his silence is met with the beat of music from her headphones. It’s the only sound to reach his ears as Meg inspects her long stiletto nails without so much as a glance in his direction. Zag, for once, falters. After a time, his hand lowers awkwardly to his side and he searches her profile for a sign of acknowledgement but finds none. Unsure how to approach, he sidles up closer, clears his throat and tries again.

Meg whips around like a roaring flame, her ponytail flicking over her shoulder, a hand on her hip and a mad glint in her eyes. “I heard you,” she says, chewing on gum. Her voice is low and husky, her words nasty as she struts across the aisle and leans against a dryer on the other side. “I was just ignoring you.”

Oh.

Her elbows rest negligently on the machine’s surface, her legs stretched long in front of her, ankles crossed. She blows a pink bubble as she sizes him up in a better light, her sharp nails drumming a rhythm on the metal in time with her blaring music.

Zag shifts uncomfortably, his body sweating harder under her gaze; there’s an enticing depth to her eyes that makes him burn all over, her pupils blown wide in the dim light. He’s wearing black jeans, skin-tight and ripped at the thighs, and a plain black dress shirt opened at the collar; it’s all charcoal, the colour burned out, but now it’s blue, now it’s pink, now it’s neon melting down and sweat glistening his skin.

The bubble pops, and Meg licks around her mouth, pulling the gum back inside with a skilful tongue. The room is hot, like it’s aflame and the washer whirs like an oven beside him, radiating heat. Zag stares, stares at her plump lips, at the way they move, mesmerizing like her dancing as she drawls, “From the bar, right?” Her pearly teeth flash. “The virgin who breaks glassware like it’s crystal not tempered.”

Heat erupts in Zag’s cheeks. Virgin? Pffttt. Like hell he is. And he only broke like three glasses this past week! Dazed by the fact that she knows him, dazed enough to forget the insult, Zag leans back against the washer, feels the vibrations of the machine whirring through him and smiles crookedly. “The old man needs to invest in better glassware.”

Meg arches a single, perfectly shaped brow, an artful smile pulling over her lips. “Old man?” she muses, her eyes sharp on him, glinting in the light. Her smile pulls into a sly smirk. “Really, now? _You’re_ the boss’s son. C’mere,” she calls him over with a slow curl of a golden-clawed finger. She doesn’t move an inch; just waits, a drop of sweat rolling down the curve of her abs and pooling in the groove of her hipbone.

Zag blinks, eyes darting warily all over. Cautiously, he approaches, and Meg pushes off the dryer, stands in front of him, _towering_ over him with those heels of hers and that ponytail done up high. And something about the way she glares at him makes him stand his ground as Meg grabs his cheeks in one hand, squishing them together, nails digging into his skin sharp, and tilts his head up, turns his chin side to side.

Zag’s lips smush together, and his tongue darts over his lips as Meg leans in. His vision is filled with pink, pink lips as Meg appraises him closely. She draws an audible breath; a breath Zag would share with her if he were breathing at all. Instead, he watches her lips move, slow and articulate as she whispers, “A virgin.” A cruel smirk plays on her lips. “Who would have thought.”

“I am not,” Zag defends, burning hot. He gasps a breath when she finally pulls back, his eyes wide and furious in the face of her smouldering composure. He tries to pull his jaw away, but Meg’s nails dig in tight and she holds him right where she wants.

Meg bites her bottom lip, pulls the hot pink through her teeth as looks him up and down in a way that makes his heart pound. “Yeah?” She arches a confident brow, thoroughly doubting his defence. “Then how ‘bout we check?” And then she leans in, and as she does, Zag’s world spins, an optical illusion swirling and swirling, colours melting and merging. His breath catches in his throat as Meg’s lips press lightly and oh so delightfully over his own.

Zag loses feeling in his fingers, in his toes; the rest of his body is non-existent. Only his lips are present in this moment that is barely more than a passing second. Meg pulls back, and it’s his spit on her lips as she licks slowly around her own mouth, a wet sheen glistening over her cupid’s bow _._ Zag’s breath fails to restart, his lungs winded by nothing more than the faintest touch, and Meg looks down her nose at him, pleased with what she sees in a way that makes Zag’s knees go weak beneath him, his body unresponsive.

Meg grins wider, her eyes glistening brightly. “A _total_ virgin,” she confirms, and Zag can’t argue because his heart pounding hard is the only part of him functioning right now. His body has deserted his senses, he’s a desert, deprived, his mouth dry. His eyes widen.

Oh, hell.

He gasps a breath, a man resuscitated, alive as Meg shoves him back. He runs up against the machine that tumbles all her lingerie in it and has no time to move before she skulks between his legs, kicks them wide, and cages him in, two hands slamming on the metal either side of his hips.

Oh, fuck. _Fuck_.

Zag releases a trembling breath, frozen in a mix of thrill and terror. Their bodies are close, a breath of air between them, _anticipating,_ and breath, _his_ breath all over _her_ lips.

“Shiiiit,” he breathes.

Her body presses against his, presses heat into the pit of his stomach, her bare skin hot, radiating heat, and a thigh is pushed between his legs, just there, a feather-light presence but oh how he is aware of it, this feeling burning inside him. And oh, this must be a dream, he’s high on something, the haze in the club, tainted with hallucinogen perhaps. It’s the walls melting down around him, his body losing function. He isn’t breathing as he glances down the long line of her neck and nearly passes out at what he sees squashed against his chest with the amount of blood that rushes to his head. It’s like waves of amphetamine fizzling under his skull, and he’s riding that high all the way to cloud nine.

And that is all before Meg leans in and whispers, her voice sultry, _moist_ in the shell of her ear, “How ‘bout I teach you a thing or two, Mr. Future Owner.” Her long nails curl around his wrist and guide it to her waist, her lashes fluttering against his cheek, lips brushing his skin as she smiles and looks down at his hand on her body. “Like…” she drawls and _gods,_ her voice is so hot. “What it means to be boss.”

A shudder wracks his body.

_Boss._

Zag’s lips part around a breath he can’t exhale, and he nods, _nods_ like oh gods yes, _yes._ That’s what he wants. That’s what he’s gonna be. He might not yet be able to make the first move, but like a boss, his fingers spread all over her skin and hold on like he owns her, _possessive._ Under his palm, he feels her honed muscles shift with each long and languid breath she draws, and each breath is a sweet punch to his lips—he tastes her on his tongue, honeyed but heady as opium.

One long nail tilts his chin up. Their eyes meet, burning in pink, and it’s anticipation, it’s his body vibrating, it’s a frequency firing every nerve and every nerve bursting under his skin like fireworks, building and building to the climax. Meg leans in, tilts her head just so, and those fireworks condense into one spherical core as her eyes oh so suavely lower to his lips. His stomach flips. His inhale is sharp. She’s close, so close, her breath down his throat, and then that core inside him explodes supernova as he tastes her for real, the room engulfing in fire. A press of lips on lips, soft and full, hers moving slowly against him, lingering a moment before pulling a fraction back with a sigh that cools the moisture on his lips.

Zag’s hand trembles on her waist, and then it stops trembling completely as his body is overridden by another kiss, stealing his breath and his awareness. Her long nails rake through his hair and drug his senses, dilute his fear, dilute it enough that, tentatively, he places his other hand on her waist, moving like the air is neon syrup and the laundromat is dripping in it. Meg’s stomach dips at the unexpected touch, light as it is, skin on skin, and Zag feels that reaction in his core, in the way his heart stutters, in the way chemicals in his brain kick-start a chain reaction. He grips on, makes his presence known, and Meg’s eyes snap open.

Zag realizes then that he forgot to close his eyes, so he loses his breath again at the piecing impact of that glare. Meg dives in for another kiss, drives him back, and this time, she doesn’t close her eyes either. She glares at him and forces his mouth to move in the way she wants it too with a harder, fuller, deeper kiss and a graze of teeth across his bottom lip, and Zag’s breathe shudders on his next exhale, and then he forgets to breathe at all. Overwhelmed.

But _boss._ That’s what he wants. So he does his best to match, and attacks back with equal force, only to have his hips shoved back into the machine and the kiss broken off before he can finish; and he’s groaning, her thigh pressed hard against him; he’s losing his breath. The kiss is started again but _slower_ by Meg’s lips insistent, demanding, controlling him. She grabs his hands, and sensation comes back to them as she interlocks their fingers and drags his palm up the curve of her sides, dipping into her waist and riding higher, and then Zag’s brain glitches, comprehension slipping, a signal lost, block-coloured test card, as his palms ride over the fullness of her breasts, and suddenly, all the heat in the room pools in Zag’s hips, molten like magma when he feels Meg inhale, her chest rising beneath him, an undulation of her body against his.

And then his hands slide behind her neck, and it’s Zag’s turn to inhale sharp as Meg’s hands slip under his thighs and lift him up easily. She sits him on the washer like a throne burnished in melting neon. It rumbles beneath him, vibrating into his hips, and it’s hot, boiling, _melting_ him. And now their level, eye to eye, or rather, he’s a fraction higher. Zag pulls Meg’s headphones from her ears, resting them around her neck, and they pump a beat that sets the rhythm of their next meeting of lips.

It’s an out of body experience where every colour becomes sensation, and every thought is a haze, smoky, smoking, suffocating and hot. Hot like wax rolling down his skin, _melting_ until their bodies become one puddle on the tiles beneath them. Meg’s hands ride over his thighs, thumb nails tracing down the insides as she smooths her palms down to his knees and then all the way back up but _slowly._

It’s agonizing. Like the kiss that is forced back down to a simmer each time Zag tries to add fuel to the heat. It’s so sensual, the lips so soft on his own, moving in caresses like melted candy ebbing and flowing, a syrupy overlap of flavours that makes his world spin, makes his head dizzy until he can’t take it anymore; it’s painful, it’s temptation, it’s _tantalizing,_ endlessly striving to satisfy the desire inflamed inside him. He threads his hands into her sleek hair and pulls at the roots until that ponytail comes loose. Meg’s hair falls all over them both, sticking to her neck and sticking to his lips as well, _messy._

Meg makes a noise of displeasure against his lips at the added heat clinging to her body, but that low sound just makes Zag want it hotter, want _more_. He rakes his hands through her hair, and Meg grins against him. She plucks her hair from his lips with her sharp nails and then she grabs his chin and presses her tongue warm and wet against one corner of his mouth and licks a long stripe across his cupid’s bow.

Zag’s surprised gasp makes his lips part, his lashes fluttering, his mouth chasing for more as Meg pulls back to inspect him. Her hand slides down from his chin and curls around his throat, a thumb pressing down against the artery at the side, and Zag feels the pressure build as she leans in and presses her tongue down his throat.

He releases a strangled noise into Meg’s mouth. It’s wet and messy like the kiss that becomes insides spilling out and melting into each other’s mouths, an uneven push and pull of muscles, a melting of his blood, magma in his veins, building and building. And there’s gum somewhere in here. The flavour sweet and deadly, sticky like candy. His head is light, waves in his body like effervescence under his skin, deprived. More. He wants more. He pushes against Meg’s lips, insistent. He wants to be devoured, and as Meg releases the pressure on his neck, the flood of blood that reaches his brain sends his eyes rolling back into his head. He moans, his body numb, melting, pliant and yielding up the sounds he’s been holding back. He’s a fever, burning, infecting his brain; there’s nothing to stop him from turning into a puddle of moans on the top of this washing machine.

A drop of sweat rolls down the plane of Zag’s chest like the drop of saliva that pulls from their lips as their mouths part and splatters down his chin. Hot. It’s hard to breath. The air too thick, and his lungs burning. Hotter as Meg smooths both hands over his thighs, slow, sensual, but pressurized, her thumbs pressing hard into the tendons on the insides. She makes him squirm, towards her touch or away from it not even Zag knows, but higher. That’s what he wants. He wants it higher when Meg pulls her hands back down to his knees, depriving him of the heat in the most frustrating way possible. Zag wriggles closer to the edge, _needing,_ wraps his legs around Meg’s waist and pulls their bodies flush together, his skin burning, sticking, sweaty. His feelings are all jammed up in his throat, like his heart that only knows rhythms, only knows instincts. The heart is a pulsing muscle. Their bodies are flesh and primal. So he follows what feels natural.

Meg chuckles under her breath against his needy mouth. He’s craving more, but she doesn’t give, doesn’t give him what he wants. _Slow._ That’s how she moves. _Controlling._ That’s what she is. Every part of her is controlling him. She places kisses over his skin, places kisses only where she wants, at the corners of his mouth, along his jaw, down his neck, on his clavicle. So he pleads silently with his body, with his sounds, with his hands wrapped around her neck and woven into her hair. He wants. He wants. _Please_ please me.

He almost whimpers when she finally drags her hands back up his thighs, splayed all over him, touching like she owns him, _possessive._ Her fingers slip under the rips in his jeans, and her palms are hot on his skin, her fingers squeezing him, and she draws his lip down between her teeth and he’s overwhelmed again with this feeling.

“What do you want?” she asks huskily, her voice like sex, melting his senses. It’s the only thing his body hears. “Tell me.”

Zag’s breath hitches. His mouth is dry. His voice wavering. He doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to catch his breath. He tugs on Meg, closes his eyes and breathes, “More.”

Meg smirks, her lipstick smudged around her mouth, but she holds her ground, _fierce,_ demanding, “Then beg me for it.”

His skin flushes hot from his collarbone to his ears, burning. He almost recoils, but his body isn’t functioning how it usually would. He tries to speak but his voice is nothing more than an airless breath. He tries desperately again, and this time his voice breaks on a syllable he hadn’t even thought to say, “ _Please.”_

Meg gives.

She crushes her mouth against his hard and deep, and Zag loses his mind, loses his sense of self. It’s just this feeling, and these lips pressed against him so hard they might melt together and become one. He has no control, no control of her or this desire burning like blue and pink fire that melts into a violent craving for more. He has no control when Meg sucks bruises into his skin, grazes him with her teeth; those long incisors scraping him.

Zag stares at the ceiling, eyes glazed, arms holding on tight. The neon is pretty, _mesmerizing._ A blue on the ceiling where a moth flutters, bumping into the bulb repeatedly. Oh, it’s a bug zapper that he’s looking at. The UV lures the moth in, and then it’s an electrical discharge zapping it, killing it with a static buzz. The moth twirls and twirls, it’s wings sizzling and bursting into flame as it falls headlong to the floor, electrocuted. It would have been better off bumping uselessly against the glass after all. The light was just too enticing, addictive as drugs, and now here it is, dead in a pool of neon on the floor, _melted,_ adding to the gunk in the grate and the ghosts of the past in this place.

Zag smiles, intoxicated, his eyes half-lidded, his moans _freeing_. It’s time moving in a haze, the end of the cycle with a beep, and the neon melting in the monotony of the city. _Pretty._ He bares his neck more, wraps his legs around Meg’s waist tighter. It’s Meg’s hot tongue on his trachea, rising to meet him, her eyes languid, her lashes fluttering, her gaze burning. She watches him then, watches the way he reacts when her long nails, without warning, claw down the length of his thighs and leave deep carved scratch marks stinging, burning, bleeding under his jeans. A moan of pain, of pleasure tears from his chest, uninhibited as he squirms, breath shuddering from him, thighs trembling under the assault and crushing Meg’s waist between them as his body _reacts._ He crumbles against Meg, his sweaty forehead melting on her shoulder in a daze, but Meg shoves him back with a playful smirk on her lips and he obeys, limp as a doll, looking up at her with clouded eyes and clouded thoughts

Meg lowers her eyes to her hands as she drags them down his legs from his hips to his knees, appreciating the marks she can see through ripped jeans, and then Zag’s stomach flips, his gut bursting with molten heat all over his hips as Meg pushes his thighs wider. And then he’s hit by a wave of dizziness as Meg lowers herself. Lowers herself to her knees. And wow, _wow._

This can’t be real.

His vision leaves him entirely and he falls back on his elbows, balance unsteady, his breathing heavy, panting, and _anticipating_. And in his anticipation, with the blood rushing in his ears, he’s unable to hear the sounds of Meg pulling her washed lingerie from the machine and stashing it in her handbag. He blinks rapidly, vision slowly returning as Meg kicks the machine door shut and rises to her feet. And the next thing Zag is aware of is a flash, that sound a camera shutter clicking, and then Meg’s pink flip phone held in front of her pointed at him, a pleased smile on her pink, pink lips.

Addicting.

Zag is slow to comprehend, drugged out of his mind, high on whatever she’s done to him. His body weak—weak and needy as Meg snaps her phone shut, leans over him and kisses him full on the mouth. He’s weak as Meg presses their bodies together and pulls his cash from his pockets and needy as she pulls back and stashes the cash in her bra.

And there’s spit on Zag’s bottom lip until she runs her thumb across it and pushes it into his mouth for him, gold nail pressing onto his tongue. Meg wipes her thumb on his shirt and steps back. She swipes up her jacket and slings it over her shoulder, the holographic plastic refracting a melting glaze of colours. And Zag watches in a daze as those long legs strut to the exit, her handbag over her shoulder, her heels clacking on the tiles, her hair flicking back behind her. The door chimes, and Meg leaves without a backward glance, and as she leaves, she takes all of the heat with her.

Zag blinks, mouth fallen open, unbreathing. He’s sweaty, sticky, smells like Meg’s sickly-sweet spit all over his skin. He closes his mouth and bites down on the bubble gum she left behind; it melts pliantly under his teeth. The flavour’s long gone.

Zag draws himself up, looks around the empty laundromat and runs his hand through his matted hair. He sighs. His thighs still sting. His breathing is quick. His clothes are all dishevelled. His money is gone. And there’s no trash can in this place. Zag shuffles off the edge of the washer and his legs buckle under his weight. He catches himself against the machine and slides down to the cold tiles, leaning his head back against the metal. His thighs are trembling, weak like jelly, and his wash cycle has long since completed, but all he can think of is glazed legs, hot pink lips, burning eyes, and the feeling of hands still on his body, _ghosts._ He buries his face in his hands and groans long and deep, flushing with heat. His body is hot just thinking about it. And he still can’t breathe.

Eventually, Zag takes the gum from his mouth and sticks it to the underside of the washing machine with all the others that have accumulated over time. Another night, another history to write in the mould on the walls, in the cracks in the tiles, and in the sweaty late-night make-out sessions that will be forever burned into his mind. He melted there, on that washing machine, intoxicated under this blue and pink neon.

Zag looks at his reflection in the door of the dryer opposite him, and his mouth falls open once again, shocked. Smeared all over his lips, all over his jaw, all over his neck is pink, _hot pink_ lipstick. Meg’s. Desperately, Zag tries to rub it off, but the greasy stuff stains his skin like a permanent ghost of everything that happened here.

_Wow._

When Zag leaves later that night with a chiming of bells, he takes the melted pink stained on his skin into the city with him.

**Author's Note:**

> and the only reason Meg gave lessons was because Zag was the only trash can in the laundromat :]
> 
> also meg totes has a motorola razr pink
> 
> also here's my [twitter](https://twitter.com/apricot_saint) come say hi and/or follow for future writing woo <3


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